


nepheligenous

by kegadoll



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, References to Drugs, Rough Sex, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 08:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12790356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kegadoll/pseuds/kegadoll
Summary: They begin to exist somewhere between yellowing bruises and the time spent picking dried blood from under fingernails; maintaining a sense of equilibrium with vehement kisses, a spit in the face, and a slap across the cheek. They're wed by Kira’s will, the minister the world’s greatest detective himself, and the vows a list of deceased in sloppy penmanship. // a story told in 4 parts.





	nepheligenous

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I haven't posted a single fanfic publicly for a good 5 or 6 years so this feels rather jarring. I'm mostly posting this out of necessity, but, in a way, that's good because it's forcing me out of the complacency I've been knee-deep in in regards to my writing. Hopefully, this is the start of some newfound confidence and drive because, man, have I a lot of writing that's accumulated over the past years. Anyhows - this isn't a particularly nice piece (which you'll come to find is the norm), but I hope someone finds some sort of enjoyment from it.

They meet again at a party. There are no pleasantries, no “nice to see you, how are you, nice weather today, huh?”s. Mello is unaware that relationships exist like thread hung taut over a flame; thinning in the middle until they split into two halves with fraying ends. One supposes you could tie them loosely back together, but it’s messy and imprecise, impossible to accurately replicate the existence of what was once whole. Mello haphazardly tries to knot he and Matt back together with clumsy, hasty fingers; seemingly still under the impression that it’s possible to ‘pick up where you left off’ after years of radio silence and empty spaces in which bitterness and resentment grow. His attempt immediately and spectacularly comes undone again when Matt says, without hesitation, “I didn’t miss you, y'know”.

It’s not the whole truth but Matt wants to watch the way Mello’s face twists with chagrin, hear the way his words take on a vitriol that makes Mello sting. He finds gratification in finally being given the chance to recite lines he’d rehearsed at 14, as he tossed whatever was left of Mello’s possessions onto the bonfire he’d lit behind the greenhouses. Lighting the end of cigarette after cigarette in the flame, it had burned with the last of Mello’s physical manifestation in his life. It wasn't long until Matt started laughing. At first, out of satisfaction, and later, he realised, because it pained him, and laughing felt like the most befitting and natural response - _like hell_ would he be caught crying over it. It wasn't quite Mello's departure that pained him, though - the act of leaving, at least - not nearly as much as how unceremonious it had been; how quiet it was for someone with conviction as loud as Mello's. Matt had expected theatrics. There was only the click of a door. And then, silence. 

Nothing, however, had really stirred in him as he begun the arduous process of tossing Mello's small mountain of workbooks and papers into the flame. He watched the corners of exam papers that Mello had slaved over, though they only ever seemed to cause him grief, curl and char to black as they caught alight, splintering into flurries of unreadable ash. All he could muster was a vague feeling that this was all _too_ emblematic. Mello's hard work, up in flames; so literally, so quickly and without deference, and symbolic of real life in a way that was too close for comfort. Alas, Mello had walked out of Wammy’s with little else but the clothes on his back, a hold-all stuffed with pocket money, and the ashes of his life’s ambitions underfoot. Scattered like distasteful congratulatory confetti, they seemed to mock and say _“well done, you’re second best, and did I also mention that you’re a failure?”_.

At 14, Matt makes a note that fire seems to enjoy following Mello around. 

Matt silently hopes Mello will bring up the past, allowing him to, in turn, bring up how cathartic it had felt to reduce his memory to dust and embers. But Mello, rash as ever, doesn't waste any time in skipping over words and straight to actions. Matt finds himself laughing now too, almost instinctually, as Mello curls his fingers around the neck of his shirt, yanking him downwards and causing them to bridge the space between them until they are nose to nose.

“What, did you expect me to?” Matt asks, eyes focused on whatever else isn’t Mello’s currently highly punchable face, the onset of a grin tugging upwards at the corners of his lips, begging to be fully realised, “Because that’s pretty idiotic of you. Conceited even. Though it’s like you to be so self-important. I guess some things don’t change - like that ridiculous haircut and inflated ego of yours.”

He doesn’t need to look at Mello to know he should probably brace for a swift uppercut to the jaw but Matt’s deliverance doesn’t come; God doesn't like to grant small mercies to men like him. Mello’s fingers relax and his grip falls and Matt is left feeling stunned and slightly disappointed. He comes to the conclusion that he’s a masochist because he _wants_ to feel the crack of his jaw as Mello connects his fist with his face; to feel the dull throbs of pain that would signify an, albeit pyrrhic, victory. Nothing seems to satiate Matt more than knowing he's able to wind Mello’s string so tight and so rigid that it snaps, but he also knows that it's far less fulfilling when it lacks consequence.

Maybe Mello is just too burnt out to indulge in messy violence, but he pockets his hands almost as fast as he had taken them out. Seeds of dissatisfaction in Mello's cop-out very quickly begin to take root in the pit of his stomach and Matt is forced to rationalise how intense it feels. He does so by counting the days and months and years that had passed since he was 14. All the time passed before today, the day Mello had waltzed on back on in to his life, uninvited and so cocksure, and under the presumption that time had yet to contort their relationship into something unrecognisable. With anyone else, you could chalk it up to naivety - an almost childish hope that something as tenuous and delicate as a relationship will be left unchanged by the passage of time. But Matt knows Mello, knows he doesn't seem to understand that yes, it's true that not contacting someone for five years will make them feel unfavourably towards you and no, they will not be eager to let you back in.

Mello doesn't change, because he's as arrogant and haughty as he ever was, but he doesn't realise that other people do.

They stand in silence for a while. There's a pattern of uncomfortable shifting on both sides and Mello's face speaks of exhaustion and desperation but Matt manages to stave off any urge to feel sympathy. Instead, he punches Mello. Mello still doesn't punch back. 

\- - -

They meet again three weeks later. At 19, Matt’s suspicion that fire likes to follow Mello around is confirmed. While it may have been metaphorical in the past, it was obvious that the literal had finally received its invitation. Fire had taken no end of liberties and dug its fingers into Mello’s skin, nails tearing deep into flesh that blistered and twisted and scarred grotesquely. Matt jokes, asks Mello if he's been “mauled by a dog, by any chance?”, but Mello doesn’t find it half as funny as Matt does. He deflects the comment by staring daggers and Matt quips back, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll excuse the silence, laughing must hurt for someone who just got back from Chernobyl.”

“Stop taking the piss and get over here,” Mello spits as he roots around his jacket pockets for a lighter.

They light up behind a trash can, share cheap cigarettes and shitty cannabis cut with God-knows-what, and something about the whole thing feels familiar and, God forbid, almost comforting – _almost_ , but not quite. 

It’s one of two options. It's either because they’re both out of their minds, or it's because they come to a silent but mutual agreement of _who fucking cares anymore_ , but the sense of comfort is _just enough_ and it's not long before they get handsy. They exchange smoke and then they exchange saliva and Mello exchanges dignity for impulsion and momentary pleasure and gives Matt a blowjob. He’s off his face, clumsy and sloppy, and on several occasions he finds himself going too deep and ends up gagging and hacking up his lungs.

“Because sounding like you’re about to throw up any second is really turning me on.”

Matt isn’t particularly involved in the act from its inception but, as he starts to sober up a tad, his mind is further forced to wander elsewhere – _because how the fuck did he get here in the first place?_ He can feel the façade put up by the drugs slipping so he ushers Mello to _"hurry the fuck up"_ before he has to think too hard about what they’re doing. Matt knows he doesn't like to be in the present. Instead, he prefers the relief of numbness and the stillness in apathy. Feeling is overwhelming, and lucidity is an inconvenience. That's why he goes out of his way to fog his vision with smoke. Cigarette smoke; blunt smoke; smoke and mirrors. And, most dangerous of all, smoke that comes from smouldering wildfires that go by the name of Mello. 

Matt realises far too quickly that he’s spent the better part of the night with weed-induced rose-tinted glasses. He wants so desperately to ignore how familiar this all feels and how _good_ that familiarity feels. But sobriety brings clarity, and as soon as he cums, Matt feels like he’s about to throw up too. He hates the way he'd let himself slip into a kind of complacency with Mello around and, even more so, he hates how easy he found it to do so. After everything, he knows Mello deserves the continued callous attitude of "I didn’t miss you” yet he finds it hard to keep up the act. It's that unplaceable, unyielding heat that blazes within Mello and it makes Matt melt, even when he thinks his defences are reinforced with steel. 

Still, he succumbs to a moment of inadvertent tenderness that he somehow knows he’ll regret even before he lifts his arm. While Mello is still crouching, Matt runs a hand through his hair. As it brushes through his fingers, it feels more like it's acid eating through his flesh.

"You look hideous," Matt says gently, trying to even out the cloying sentimentality of the moment with a punt at low hanging fruit.  
Mello responds by slapping his hand away but his facial expression remains uncharacteristically soft. 

They spend the rest of their time taking lazy drags on roll-up cigarettes and discussing nothing that holds any weight, backs leant up against the wall and with little space between them. As Mello follows suit and comes down from his high, Matt observes the way Mello’s hands start to shake; maybe with anger, maybe with fear, maybe because it’s a bitter November night and it’s just _fucking cold_ – neither of them really know for sure and neither of them decide to mention it. 

\- - -

From then on, they meet every day. They begin to exist somewhere between yellowing bruises and the time spent picking dried blood from under fingernails; maintaining a sense of equilibrium with vehement kisses, a spit in the face, and a slap across the cheek. They are not partners in any more than the literal sense of the word; Mello is Mello and Matt is Matt, separate entities in a turbulent coexistence. They become wed by Kira’s will, the minister the world’s greatest detective himself, and the vows a list of deceased in sloppy penmanship. 

At least, that is what they tell themselves.

They reiterate it to each other, almost in ritual, before Matt fucks Mello viciously into the bed, with Mello’s face pushed down hard into the pillowcase. He coughs and splutters as he’s suffocated and Matt yanks his head up by his hair to let him breathe just enough that he doesn’t have to deal with the distraction of Mello's muffled wheezing. 

They finish and, as if on cue, they find themselves in a familiar scene. They sit on the balcony of Matt’s flat, smoking and flicking butts into the void beyond the railing. Matt's skin is starting to resemble the nicotine stains in the white of the stripes of his shirt, yellowed and mottled with bruises. Mello sports a busted lip that he tries to cover with black lipstick. It's silent, but more so than usual, because it's a silence carved from tension rather than routine. 

Still at 19, Matt cranes his neck to glance back at the calendar on the coffee table. January 20th. Before, he had rarely bothered to flip the calendar, let alone pay attention to what day it was. For the first time in a long time, his days were well defined and it was integral to maintain some sort of grasp on the date. In the years proceeding, his days had merged into indistinguishable, nondescript passages of time, filled only with indulgence in vices and flickering screens, but Mello had brought an element of structure. Funny, for someone who, himself, was so _un_ structured - lived a life that was habitually impetuous and reckless. 

"Soon?" Mello asks into the end his cigarette, not even bothering to turn around.  
"Soon." Matt reiterates.

Mello softly shrugs his shoulders, almost indifferent to the momentous nature of the statement. Unsure if Mello had simply resigned himself to fate or if he was just trying to cover for debilitating fear, Matt wishes he could just read his mind instead.

\- - -

They meet for the last time on January 26th. Matt is already dead by the time Mello, too, dies. His body is cold and stiff far before the gasoline flames start to lick at, and finally engulf, Mello. Eternally at 19, Matt isn’t able to witness the conclusion to Mello’s life-long rendezvous with fire and one could suppose, if he were alive, he’d feel quite cheated. For Mello, at least, it seemed like a fitting ending for someone who never quite seemed to fit anywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the lovely ladies who I've had the honour of RPing with over the years: L, J, and R. Kisses.


End file.
